


bending sky

by truehumandisaster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Gen, His Dark Materials Inspired, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9614474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truehumandisaster/pseuds/truehumandisaster
Summary: a different telling of captain america, with daemons and dust and all those unsaid things





	

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to arya for helping me figure out a lot of details in regards to bucky's daemon 
> 
> also, quick note:  
> steve's daemon is fintan   
> bucky's is cara  
> sarah rogers' is ros   
> peggy's is angus

Steve knew it was a bad idea. Hell, he always knew it was a bad idea. He would get home with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and his Ma would give him _that look_ again -- pursed lips and eyes that blazed with pride, even as they tried to look disappointed. Her daemon would poke its scaly head from her sleeve and hiss, showing its forked tongue in admonishment of Fintan. The pair were an intimidating sight when they wanted to be. Sure, he knew it was a bad idea, but the older boy had been harassing one of the neighbor girls again and he couldn’t just walk by.

Lil Donnie was at least a foot taller than Steve (the nickname had to come from when he was a baby) and _mean_. He got a kick out of mugging folks, and he stole cigarettes from his Pa just to make a statement. He always wore the same jacket and claimed the stains of red on it were from other fights. Steve convinced himself it was just spaghetti. A twelve year old could convince himself of anything, if only he tried hard enough and ignored the warnings of his daemon.

The point was, Steve knew it was stupid to pick a fight with a teen like Lil Donnie, but he did it anyways. Donnie’s daemon shifted as Steve punched the older boy, taking the form of a large hound, but Fintan hadn’t shifted in damn near three years. The bobcat hunched his back and showed his fangs, and for as scruffy as he was and for as adamant against Steve’s fights as he was, he didn’t back off either. Steve got one punch in, and it was _good_ \-- just enough to wipe that smirk off Lil Donnie’s face for a moment.

Of course, then Lil Donnie had to punch him back, and it wasn’t near as fun. Steve heard Fintan’s yowl as Donnie’s daemon lunged for him, but both boy and daemon stood back up as soon as they had been knocked down. This was written in the blood of the Rogers family: to keep pushing, to keep fighting, to keep going. He held his fists up and said a prayer to God.

God must’ve been listening, because another boy stepped in, taller than Steve and with a daemon that shifted more fluidly than Steve had ever seen. There was grace in the way she moved from bird to minx to tiger and back again, and his jaw dropped a quarter of an inch in astonishment. The boy didn’t even pause to look at Steve, but instead, he punched Lil Donnie with more force than Steve ever could. He grinned as the bully scurried off, his hound with her tail between her legs.

“Normally, you’re supposed t’ avoid gettin’ hit,” the boy extended a hand. “Name’s Bucky.” He nodded towards his daemon, who seemed in a ballet between the forms of bird and mouse. “This is Cara.”

“Steve,” he returned, shaking the hand with as tight a grip as he could muster. “Didn’t need any help, but thanks. Fintan here was getting a little concerned.” His daemon flashed him a look his Ma would be proud of.

 

Boy and boy grew, one with a daemon who had settled into his form with ease and the other with a daemon who changed every hour. The first time Steve brought Bucky home, his Ma looked like she might cry. _Jesus_ , he had wanted to ask. _Do I really not got that many friends?_ Instead, he swallowed the words and smiled sheepishly towards Buck. His Ma’s daemon, a snake named Ros, flicked his tongue in Cara’s direction, and his unblinking eyes panned to Fin questioningly. Bucky preened under the woman’s attention, however -- with a smirk on his face, he looked like one of those actors on the silver screen.

“Nice ta meet you, James,” Ma said, and immediately, she set a place for him at dinner. It was like that more days than not: she would set aside something for him, even when they didn’t have much else to give. “There’re three other kids in that family,” she’d say on those days. “Don’t matter if he’s not comin’. He’s got a place all the same.”

Bucky was as charming as one of those actors on the silver screen too, giving her a handshake and compliments on her home. The place wasn’t anything special; Steve’s cheeks had turned red when he first entered with his new friend. It was too small, with one bedroom and old furniture that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to crack or crumble. There was a layer of dust that no amount of cleaning could get rid of, much to the pain of Steve’s lungs. His Ma tried -- bless her, she tried so damn hard -- but she was a single mother with a job that kept her away from the home more often than not, just so they could afford to eat. In lieu of decorations, she had hung Steve’s drawings through the ages on the wall, and she made sure to point those out when she showed Bucky around.

When she was done, Bucky turned to Steve with eyes that shined brighter than any constellation. “Those are something else, Stevie. You think she’ll hang one of mine up if I bring her some flowers next time? Mr. Willis down the street sells ‘em for a penny.”

Steve decided then that Bucky could stay.

 

Steve didn’t think Bucky knew what being friends with him meant. At school, the pair became inseparable, and no one much messed with him with Bucky there. The boy was as scrappy as Steve but taller, and he was better at fighting than most had a right to be -- not that he needed it. He charmed his way out of trouble with a tongue made of gold. Steve, however, couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut.

In the hallways, in the classrooms, in front of the building itself, he called out bullies. Poor Fin would sigh heavily and get in fighting position. How many times did boy and daemon come to class, bruised and battered? Even with Bucky looking out for him, he managed to find trouble. The teachers who found him afterwards would sigh in exasperation and send him to the principal with another note to add to his collection.

“You sure you don’t like it, Rogers?” The principal asked. “Makes you feel alive or somethin’?”

“No, sir,” Steve replied. “If you did your job and stopped ‘em, I wouldn’t have to do a damn thing.”

Detentions were a regular occurrence for Steve Rogers, and Bucky soon joined him.

When the boy walked in the detention room with a bruised cheek, Steve flashed him a curious look. Cara was curled in his pocket, looking frazzled with a clump of fur missing. Soon as the pair settled in the desk beside Steve, Fin curled around the legs of Buck’s chair and purred. They didn’t touch; a human touching another’s daemon was the height of taboo, but Fin was closer to another than he’d ever been, with the exception of Steve’s Ma. For a reason he couldn’t say, Steve’s heart sped up, the sound an unnamed song.

Bucky shook his head, remaining silent but satisfied.

He had to stay longer than Steve, and when Steve first left, he was greeted with an

unwanted sight outside the school: the very boy that had gotten him sent to the principal’s was waiting. Steve’s hands curled into fists, and he held ‘em up, dropping his backpack beside him. His gray, weathered coat couldn’t take much more of this, but it made him look bigger, tougher. He needed it.

“I wanted to...apologize,” the other boy said, grimacing with the word. He was a baseball player with a rich daddy back home, and he’d probably never apologized for nothing in his life. Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously, fists lowering. The boy didn’t meet his gaze, but squinting, Steve could see the beginnings of bruises forming. His daemon didn’t even peek out. “So, uh. Yeah. Sorry, buddy.”

The boy ran off without saying anymore.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve proclaimed. “I don’t need his help!”

To prove a point, he sat in the cold, pulling his jacket closer, and waited for Bucky to come out. Fin curled on his lap to add to his warmth, and even as the afternoon grew darker, they waited for their friends. He had to ignore how his hands were already shaking, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath. None of that mattered right now. He hadn’t befriended the boy as a bodyguard.

When he caught sight of that familiar brunette head among the small crowd leaving detention, he stood up. Black spots came over his vision, and his hearing out of his good side was tunneling, but he’d be damned if he fainted now. Nope, Steve wouldn’t faint. Yes, Steve would give Bucky a piece of his mind.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” He started.

Bucky parted from the group, looking like he’d been caught stealing. He didn’t even try that golden tongue on Steve, just stuck his hands in his pockets and ducked his head. “Look, you needed some help, pal.”

“I don’t need you fightin’ my battles, Buck.” Steve jabbed him in the chest, standing as tall as he could. Even then, he only came up to Bucky’s shoulder, and he clenched his jaw in the same way he’d seen soldiers do. Fin and Cara stood off beside the pair, staring at one another as if they might strike.

“You got yourself hurt,” Fin’s small voice rang out loud in the surrounding silence. “You shouldn’t get yourself hurt for us.”

“Shut up,” Cara returned, her own voice carrying a singsong tune to it. “That’s what friends are for, you little punk. You think we’d do this for anyone?”

“Sure,” Bucky continued. He was starting to get mad now too, and it was clear he didn’t know what to do with the feeling. He tried waving for Cara to come into his pocket, but she was in the form of a crow and wholly ignored him. “Sure, whatever you say. But from where I’m standin’, it looks like you need help.”

“You’re an idiot!”

“Yeah, well, look in the mirror.”

The pair parted, each having to almost drag their daemons away. Even with Fin secure in Steve’s arm, the bobcat struggled to get free, yowling in Cara’s direction. It was better this way, Steve hoped. He didn’t need his friends to pity him. They were thirteen years old, and Steve had done just fine before Bucky. Didn’t matter that he was already missing the other boy. Didn’t matter that Fin still yowled for Cara. Didn’t matter that Steve had wanted to do nothing more than embrace the boy when he’d gotten out of detention. It was better like this.

His ma was sleeping on the couch when he got home, but she startled awake when he slammed the door. Ros uncurled from his spot beside her, sliding off the couch with a flick of his tongue.

“Rough day, Steve?”

“Bucky got in a fight, got himself hurt.”

Embarrassingly, his eyes were watering, but he wiped his tears in frustration and refused to let any fall. When his Ma sat up on the couch and gestured beside her, he didn’t hesitate to curl up on the space. On the floor, Ros wrapped himself around Fin, giving small squeezes of comfort. Ma’s arm slipped around Steve, and she ran her fingers through his hair, just like she had done when he was small. But he was still small.

“Is he alright?”

“Couple bruises. Detention. It was stupid.”

“People do stupid stuff for people they love, Steve.” His Ma pressed a kiss to his head. He could feel the weight of things she wanted to say, but the Rogers had a habit of holding that weight on their shoulders and not sharing an ounce. “You always inspire the best in people. You might not be able ta stop him, but you can always patch him up.”                                            

“I called him an idiot.”             

“You should apologize.”

Wiping his eyes again, Steve nodded.

Under his breath, Fin uttered, “Thank God.”

 

Steve always thought the winters were a special kind of thing -- on the cusp of life and death, the snow fell and buried ‘em all inside. On the cusp of life and death, it was these months that his chest seemed to always start to rattle in time of his breaths. Fin was the first to cough; he always showed signs of sickness faster than Steve. It was also these months the pair agreed that it was best to ignore the sound. The world covered in ice; the sky sending down tufts of white -- it was the stuff of dreams. Why disturb it with the threat of reality? The only thing that seemed to fight off the chill was boy and boy; the pair were soldiers against that undying winter.

In Steve’s fifteenth year, it was a cold winter -- colder than any night in Brooklyn had a right to be. The colder it got, the more time he spent at Bucky’s place. He tried to keep his teeth from chattering in the evening, but it was as if his friend was attuned to the subtle shifts in his form. If Steve got sick, who was the first to know? Bucky looked to Steve, and Cara looked to Fin; both of ‘em learned real quick why Sarah Rogers had learned to hate the winter.

Once again, Steve’s body seemed keen to betray him, and he started sniffling before he had the chance to leave Bucky’s room. The response was immediate. Bucky flipped back his ragged blankets and gave Steve _that look_ (pursed lips and blazing eyes), and there wasn’t too much protest from Steve before he slipped beside him to bask in such warmth under the blankets.

Although, Steve had never met a soul with feet as cold as Bucky’s.

For as small as Steve was, it was easy for the pair to fit in the bed side by side. Fin curled up, nose tucked against the bed, and pressed himself close to Steve, while Cara transformed into a coyote and splayed out above the blanket on top of the boys. Always, the daemons were careful to remain closer to their own boy than to the other; even in the cold, taboos guided them.

Despite the fact that Steve would insist he didn’t need this special treatment, that he had his own bed, that he could get by on his own, it was… _safe_. Brooklyn may be where he lived, but it was Bucky Barnes who had become his home within it. It was more than safety; it was sanctuary and everything good about this damn city. Even though sleep evaded him for a while, there wasn’t a place he’d rather be.

He woke up the next morning with a fever that made the walls move.

He felt Fin shivering beside him, and he lifted his head, familiar black dots appearing in his vision almost immediately. He ought to say a prayer to God, but there was nothing divine or special about his thoughts. His hand searched for the familiar fur, and he let out a sigh of relief when he found the bobcat beside him. They’d been sick before, and they had survived every time. This was no different, and he drifted… Someone leaned nearer, pressing a glass of water to his mouth, but he was already gone…

Despite his small stature, Steve had never felt tiny. Often times, he felt as if he was truly a titan, but the weight of the world had forced him to his knees and made him appear far smaller than he otherwise should have been. With his hands balled into fists at his side and blood smearing a newly formed cut on his lips, there was never the presence of invincibility in his movements so much as the certainty that he was being guided by something better than himself. It was only when sickness wracked his body, forcing him to curl into a ball around Fin so tiny that they should both be invisible altogether, that he realized the awful truth time and time again: his body was weak.

For the next three days, the fever allowed him to pass the time in a blur of shadows and strange dreams. Some days, he believed it was his mother by his side, before he realized -- no, Ma’s gotta be at work; no, the touch is too cool, the voice too deep. He woke with Bucky watching him and Cara unmoving on the edge of the bed, as he should have guessed he would, and a frown formed on his parched lips.

He swore that he’d know that boy anywhere, sickness or not. 

He also swore that Bucky shouldn’t have stayed.

A sudden realization: this was not Steve’s home. This was not his room. He squinted at the walls around him, recognizing his friend’s place. Half-remembered nights teased his memories, and he forced himself to sit up. Bucky watched quietly, but Cara quickly turned herself into a sparrow, flittering around him. 

It suddenly became imperative for Steve to convince Bucky that he was well enough to go back home, and his jaw jutted out in that stubborn way he had. When he threw back the sheets of his bed, it was clear he would get there one way or another. The room smelled of death, of sweat, and of fear. It felt the same as how the neighbor’s had felt before God took ‘em too soon. He was wheezing from it, but it didn’t matter. He needed the world of open skies and the breeze tickling his skin; he needed the life of the city at his back -- so he reached for Bucky’s coat and wrapped it tighter around himself, ignoring the way his breath rattled in his chest and how his heart beat, beat, beat so quickly.

Bucky moved a hell of a lot faster than Steve could have, that was for damn sure. The boy stood abruptly from the bed and leaned against the frame of his bedroom door. His arms were crossed, and his hair stuck to his forehead in a way Steve had never seen before. (When was the last time he had showered?) With lips pressed in a tight line, it looked like he meant to lecture Steve, and Cara was a coyote again, pacing the space in the center of the room. 

“Goddammit, Buck. I’m fine.” When all that stood between him and _freedom_ was Bucky and the door, he felt angry. It didn’t matter that his legs shook. It didn’t matter that saying four words wiped him of energy… He couldn’t stay here -- not when it meant Bucky was missing out on school in a time when one couldn’t afford that. He opened his mouth to argue some more, but there was something reflected in the pool of his friend’s eyes as he tried ushering Steve back to rest… 

Fear. The sort of fear that comes when you think you might lose that other part of your soul. Steve had felt it before, back when Bucky first stepped into his fights. Fin did not move from his spot on the bed, but Steve could _feel_ him, urging the boy back to the warmth.

“Steven,” Fin warned. “Please.” 

It wasn’t about Steve’s own health when the blond finally gave up and crawled back to bed; it was about making sure he kept that look of fear out of Bucky’s gaze. Immediately, Fin reclaimed his spot against Steve’s stomach, and just as he settled in again, he felt the presence of another creep in beside him.

Not Bucky.

Cara, still large and shaggy and so, so beautiful, placed her front paws on the bed beside Steve and lowered her head. It took a long moment for Steve to realize what she meant to happen, and his eyes widened, unsure if this was still a fever dream. When he looked towards Bucky, he knew neither of them were pulling his leg -- Cara was making an offering, and she leaned forward to let him know.

“You ain’t dyin’, you hear me, pal?” Bucky’s voice was gruff, but dead serious. Never had Steve heard a voice so serious. It wasn’t just comfort; it was the sweetest promise he’d ever been given, and his head swam with it.

 _No_ , he wanted to say. _I ain’t dying_.

His hand shook as he touched Cara’s fur. Bucky closed his eyes as Steve made contact with his daemon, and Steve swore he felt the earth move beneath him. No, the earth wasn’t moving. With a touch, Bucky reached his hands into the dirt and pulled Steve free from it. It was flying, it was falling, it was dangerous and exhilarating and he’d never let go, not now, not ever. Without a word, Fin slipped from Steve’s side and weaved through Bucky’s leg, purring louder than any natural bobcat could.

The touch was life itself.

The promise was simple: they’d be together until the end of the line.

 

Graduation day. Who thought they'd make it this far? Steve paced back and forth, adjusting his tie and his cap and his compass. His Ma waited in the audience with Bucky’s family, but that compass was the last piece of his Pa he had -- he cleaned it a dozen times to make sure it was as gleaming as the rest of the place. Fin groomed himself, but it didn't much matter. He looked fresh from a fight no matter what he did. Steve had to pause to rest his hand on his daemon’s head. Deep breath. He shouldn't question this miracle.

Bucky was in much better shape. Other kids waltzed over to hug him and offer their congratulations. They patted his hair, touched his shoulders, clasped his hand. He preened at the attention in that same way he always did, and ole Cara sat still as a rod beside him, her dog eyes staring at Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes. Few looked his way, but he didn't much mind. He was busy adjusting his tie and cap and compass.

Gradually, the congratulations dispersed as the first names were called. Bucky pulled Steve aside, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd of kids behind them and looking ahead to the crowd of families before them. It was moments like these Steve tried to remember: moments when that grinning, charming boy washed away and Bucky, Bucky in all his wondering mind and careful talents, stood before him. Bucky opened his mouth to say something, and Fin leaned forward to hear.

“Barnes, James,” the principal called.

The grinning, charming boy ruffled Steve’s hair. There were honors waiting for him, a hand to shake, and a diploma to receive. “High school graduates, huh? They ought to be proud.”

Fin let out a puff of air, and Steve nodded, watching as Bucky winked at the next girls in line and sauntered to the principal. Fire burned in Steve’s cheeks, and he kept his gaze locked on the ground. His ears tinged with pink. The girls giggled. Clutching his compass in his pocket, he counted the minutes. He had always known he'd live to see his own graduation; he had always known few others thought he could. Nothing would ruin this. Nothing.

Twenty minutes passed before he heard the “Rogers, Steve,” that he had been waiting for. He stepped into the light of the auditorium and had to squint to see the stage. He scrambled down the long aisle, the world around him cheering so loud that the ground shook. People and daemons alike shook the earth, and Steve knelt to pick up Fin. The daemon pressed himself close to Steve’s chest, lungs working rapidly.

“Your palms are sweaty, Steven,” he whispered. “Make sure you wipe them before you shake the principal’s hand. We made it.”

“Next step: art school. Think we can convince Buck to attend the same college? He hasn't made his decision yet.”

“I think you could convince that boy to follow you anywhere.”

The principal’s frog daemon puffed her chest out and bowed to Fin as Steve wiped his hand on his gown. The boy shook the man’s hand and became a man himself. Seventeen years old, Steve Rogers looked onto the crowd of smiling people and found his Ma pushing her way to the front, smiling biggest of all. She was crying, and he found himself holding back his own tears. Pride beamed from the woman.

He looked to the rows of students, to Bucky standing in the front, to all the others who had bullied or ignored or befriended him in his short time there. He loved ‘em. He was glad to be rid of most of ‘em.

When the last had accepted their diplomas, the group of sweating, impatient students all stood as one and tossed their caps in the air. People he didn't know slapped his back, and God knew he'd be bruised from it. Hell if he cared. He slapped people back and laughed and hugged all he could.

As the students and crowd of their families joined into one big mesh of people, Steve found Bucky again. Fin chirped happily, and even Cara seemed fixed in her favored form -- a snow leopard, large and beautiful and satisfied for the moment. Bucky tugged Steve slightly away from the crowd and clasped onto the back of his neck.

“You're a punk, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, you're a jerk,” Steve returned immediately.

“Let me finish, asshole. You're a punk, but I ain't kidding when I say I'm proud of you, alright? I've never met anyone who I knew was going t’ do good things. Sure, there's Gus, who’ll probably own a business, and Francis, who swears he’ll invent the next big car, and James Scott, who wants to be president. They don't matter. They won't do shit, in the end.” Ferocity shined in Bucky’s gaze. “You hear me? You're going to do shit, Rogers. You.”

The ferocity lingered, and he did something Steve wasn't expecting: he looked to the crowd, and then, he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Steve’s forehead. It was brief, hardly a touch at all, and if anyone had been looking (Steve prayed to God that no one had been looking), it would have seemed as if Bucky had just leaned down for a quick word. It left Steve raw.

There were times when daemons were more honest than people: when Fin would toss his head or growl or shy away or just plain tell another off. Then there were times when daemons had to lie with all their soul, just to keep that other part of them safe. When Fin stood on the tips of his toes, scruffy fur on end and teeth bared in pain, it was one of those moments. Emotions were a dangerous thing in a crowd of people, even people Steve cared about.

It was enough to keep Steve there at graduation, instead of focusing on other details of the night. Like that Bucky’s lips were red, red, red, goddammit. Or that it seemed the other man had a hundred years of sorrow and a thousand years of love in him.

Steve stumbled over some sorry excuse of gratitude and caught sight of their families, forcing their way over. Ma and all of Buck’s little siblings and mother and even his father couldn't ruin the moment. Steve’s Ma wrapped her arms around her son and nodded toward the others. Bucky’s family shuffled around Bucky, not embracing him but without a negative thing to say.

“You did it, Steve,” his Ma said. “All those years, and you kept gettin’ back up. Well, at this rate, you'll be a college man before we know it.”

Her words were interrupted by a deep cough in her that Steve didn't think twice about, but his Ma’s daemon and his own looked at one another. _Not now_ , they seemed to agree.

 

“Amen,” the small crowd repeated, a few making the sign of the cross against their chests. Daemons bowed their head in a prayer of their own. The casket lowered unsteadily into the earth, Sarah Rogers tucked safely inside. Steve thought he could convince himself she was asleep, but she deserved better than that fairytale. In saving others, she had condemned herself -- she was a fucking hero, and he'd be damned if he didn't give her the respect she deserved.

He wiped his hand against his eyes, ashamed. A hand rested on his shoulder, a hand he recognized, but he brushed it off. No, he didn't need that. He didn't want it. He'd be as strong as she taught him to be. Fintan trembled beside him, but the daemon agreed. They had to swallow their tears. College would start soon, and… and…

It didn't matter. Not now, maybe not ever again. Steve couldn't look down in that deep, dark pit where his mother now rested. Couldn't look at the deep, dark hole next to her where his father waited. Couldn’t look at her name, Sarah Rogers, carved in the stone, with Ros’s snake figure sketched beneath it. He turned away from the finality and walked off.

Surely, there was something he could have done. Begged her not to go to work, maybe. Asked her to rest more, perhaps. He shouldn't be there, eighteen and an orphan. It sure as hell wasn't fair. He didn't know where he was walking, but he kept moving. Would she be proud of him now? He was getting back up, still going. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, he'd cry, and he didn't think he'd ever stop.

He didn't realize someone was following him until he got close to his house. Bucky trailed a few feet behind, watching Steve as if he might break. Steve hated that look, hated the pity he saw. His Ma had never accepted pity.

He had always walked the fringes of death, but her? Her? Why did God take her? Steve brushed his hair from his eyes. Good, good, they were dry still. He could do it. Just keep moving, Steve. Just keep answering whatever Bucky was saying. He didn’t focus on the words. He couldn’t. Fin visibly shook beside him. Oh, his keys. They weren't in his pocket. Weren't in his hands. Weren’t anywhere. No, no, no.

Bucky moved the potted plant and pulled out the spare key.

“Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own.” He needed the man to understand that. He needed to understand that. Please, please.

Bucky’s red, red lips fell into a frown as he held out the key. “The thing is, you don't have to.” A pause. “I'm with you ‘til the end of the line, pal.”

And God, it was enough. It was good. Steve shook and quaked, and Fin quaked and shook, but it was enough. Bucky made sure they were both inside and the door was closed before he pulled him into a tight embrace. Steve did not break like he thought he might, and Cara, in the form of a brilliant swan, curled around him. It was enough, it was enough, it was enough.

Steve did not sob or scream or rage, but he clutched onto Bucky’s coat and quaked and shook and allowed himself this moment. One moment.

College would start soon. They would go to the same college, maybe take a few of the same classes, and move forward in their lives. You get knocked down, you get back up. In his pocket, Steve clutched his compass. Two souls now lived in it. He would survive. He was his mother's son, after all.

 

The boys were in art class when they were told of the new world war. Steve never much cared for drawing on easels -- much too formal, and hell if he got used to anything like that. Instead, he sat cross legged on the ground, bent over his sketchbook with pencils scattered around him and lead shining on his hands. His portrait of Cara remained unfinished, but the beginnings of something were there. She was mid-transformation, soft browns blending into sharp whites, but he couldn’t quite get the look in her eyes right. It was the same look in Bucky’s. Steve glanced toward the other boy, whose brows were furrowed in frustration and whose shoulders were hunched as he continued his attempt at drawing, and leaned forward slightly to see if he could place a name to the look. Fintan’s tail flickered in warning.

The unknown daemon arrived first, with the professor shortly behind. Both pigeon and woman were out of breath. The bird pecked around her feet nervously, and she looked at the young men in the room as if it was for the last time. Steve recognized _that_ expression. How many times had others given it to him? Fintan hissed before the news even left the woman’s mouth.

One word, the only word.

“War.”

None were surprised; the papers had said the last one was the war to end all wars, but Steve saw the scars that had been carved into the bones of his generation. The boys were not meant to stay boys, and he’d be damned if he didn’t join ‘em.

No longer did Bucky look at ease. His back was straight as an arrow, and he gripped his pencil so tight, his knuckles were turning white. Those dark eyes were wide, afraid, and staring straight at Steve.

 _I swear to God,_ Bucky seemed to say. _This ain’t your fight_.

Cara’s transformation was rapid, and how had Steve thought he could capture something so quick, so beautiful? In the form of a mouse, she darted closer to Fin. The bobcat’s fur stuck up along his spine, but he welcomed Cara’s presence with ease.

_It’s always been my fight, Buck._

Steve knew that, for all his care and wariness, ole Fin agreed.

 

Bucky had tried -- tried talking him out of it, tried training him, tried begging. Nothing changed the fact that Steve had been rejected, and there Bucky stood, ready to ship off alone. Sure, he wore that easy, breezy grin on his face, but Steve didn't want to see it. He felt ill. It should be him going too. How many times would he be forced to sit on the sidelines and watch as others did the things he should be doing? He didn't have the right to do less. How many cities would he have to go to before the army gave him a chance? He'd been to three already. He was going to be sick.

“Don't win the war without me,” he offered to the ~~boy~~ ~~man~~ soldier weakly. He wanted to say more, wanted to say a hundred things to make it alright. He didn't.

“I’ll make sure to get medals and honor and a lot of girls.” Bucky was trying. “You better write.”

“You better watch your ass.”

Something weighed in the air. Cara had been settled into the form of a tiger more and more these days -- a mirror of Fin, but more refined somehow. She sat beyond Bucky, unmoving besides the flicker of a tail every minute or so. Bucky wanted to say more too, Steve could tell. He knew the ways Buck’s lips formed a tight line in thought and how his brows furrowed and how he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Bucky didn’t say a word.

 

 _Don’t do anything stupid_.

It had been such a simple request, one that Fin liked to remind him about at bootcamp again and again. Each time, Steve would roll his eyes. It wasn’t his fault; he had to be here, body and soul, to fight the battle of the century. He couldn’t look the other way. He couldn’t go back to art school and pretend nothing had changed. The world was growing darker, and people needed to fight against it. It didn’t matter that he fell into bed each night, so exhausted he could hardly move come the next morning. It didn’t matter that the other soldiers had to stifle laughter whenever he trained. Steve could do nothing less.

He wondered about Bucky, when he had the luxury to, but most of his days were spent focusing on little else but making it through. (Some nights, he wondered if Bucky was sending letters back to an empty apartment in Brooklyn.) He could feel ‘em watching him too -- Dr. Erskine and the general and Miss Carter. _Agent Carter. Peggy Carter._ He pushed himself farther.

When they chose him for Project Rebirth, Fin reminded him again: don’t do anything stupid. Again, Steve rolled his eyes, but underneath it, he brimmed with excitement and potential. He clutched his daemon close as Peggy, her own ermine daemon perched on her shoulder, led them into the facility. She showed a faith in him, pure and unbridled, and he stood straighter for it. He liked this one, and a stab of guilt twisted his gut. He liked her too much to care.

“Are you certain you wish to go through with this?” She asked, glancing towards the audience that had gathered to watch the process. She pursed her lips in worry, reminding him of another brunette miles away. “It won’t be a comfortable process -- for you or your daemon. They’ll pull you past any limits you have.”

To his credit, Fin didn’t even tremble in Steve’s arms. Steve gave a curt nod, afraid that if he tried saying much more than that, his voice would falter. He stepped into the larger machine, and Fin stepped into the smaller one beside him. He could hardly see over the tubes that protruded from the sides, but he saw Howard Stark clear enough, running around to make sure things were set up. (The last time he’d seen the man, he’d seen the man’s failure in a flying car. He hoped this wouldn’t be a repeat.) Peggy took her spot beside the rest of his audience, but she gave him a small smile of reassurance.

Dr. Erskine began his speech, but Steve didn’t much care to listen. Breathing in and out was enough for now, and when they approached him with a needle, he had to focus even harder. Breathe in. Breathe out. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he muttered after the pinch from the shot.

“That was penicillin,” Dr. Erskine returned.

Arms of the machine lowered around him, and the tubes seemed somehow more menacing because of it. He couldn’t even see what they were preparing to do to Fin, but he could hear his daemon squirming in his machine. He could feel him panting. Gone was his calm exterior.

“Steven, Steven… This isn’t right. Please, Steven… Let’s go...”

Dr. Erskine counted down.

The tubes began emptying their content into his body, and he grimaced. Fin’s squirms turned into thrashing, but Steve was too far away to do anything. The bobcat growled; Steve bared his teeth, and his eyes popped open. He could do this. They could do this.

“Now, Mr. Stark.”

The machine closed around Steve and Fin, separating them wholly. A tap sounded at the front of the machine.

“Steven? Can you hear me?”

“Probably too late to go to the bathroom, huh?”

And then the pain began.

Everything. Steve felt everything. Golden particles streamed through the air. A thread connected men to daemon. He saw, he saw, he saw. It echoed in his bones. It grew louder. His soul was screaming, but he couldn’t hear it -- just felt it. Felt everything. The atoms that made him up were singing. They grew louder, and he found himself screaming along too. There was a pull at his heart, a deep pull, deeper than muscle and bone. It yanked, hard and painful and oh, what were they doing to ole Fin? He was crying for Fin, crying for his daemon, crying for himself. Outside, he heard people yelling too.

“No!” No, no, no… It was not too much. He wouldn’t let it be. He could feel his blood, rushing and rushing and rushing beneath his skin. All his limbs vibrated. It was not too much. He thought of his Ma and how she fought until her last breath. He thought of Bucky, somewhere in the world doing the same. He thought of Peggy, punching that soldier with such poise. He thought of Fin and how he always curled up beside Steve on the toughest nights. Most of all, he thought of going home to Brooklyn. It’d be an empty place, a shell of a home. There wasn’t another option. “Keep going! I can do this!”

The world intensified.

When the two machines opened, Steve knew something had changed.

Instead of immediately running to him, Fin ran passed him. The usual tug that kept daemon tied to man did not pull at his heart; Fin kept running, and Steve could only gape after him. There was no tether between them anymore. They could go a world apart and survive, unlike anyone else on this whole damn planet. It wasn’t normal, and it sure as hell wasn’t right, but he felt alive with it. For as mad as Fin was, Steve knew he felt the same way.

“How do you feel?”

“...Taller.”


End file.
